


The Outlaw’s Guide to Courtship and Romance

by followthefreedomtrail



Series: Matters of Life and Death [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fumbling romantic endeavors, Idiots in Love, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Sharing Baths, Soft Arthur Morgan, and Flirty Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthefreedomtrail/pseuds/followthefreedomtrail
Summary: There is perhaps no heart more romantic than that of the American outlaw, which dreams persistently and vividly of freedom, glory, riches. Unconcerned with order, it knows only how to pursue what it most desires wholeheartedly, even to the grave.On practical matters, such as courtship, however, it is almost certainly ignorant and must be instructed.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Matters of Life and Death [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1457551
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56





	1. On Chastity

**Author's Note:**

> Because etiquette guides were a thing in this time period, I wanted to make my own while also including some very real quotes from the 1800’s on courtship. Most of them are just plain awful advice, but Arthur and Maggie aren’t so good at following it anyway.
> 
> xoxo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they fuck. Again.

> **“** Do not be in too great haste to brush the bloom from the fruit you covet. It will lose half its attractions at once. **”**
> 
>   
> B. Duffey, _The Relations of the Sexes_ (1876)

_The most potent appeal of the dangerous outlaw is wrapped up in their forbidden-ness. Indulging in intimacy too soon will dramatically decrease the longevity of relationship a fugitive can hope to attain._

* * *

_Women need,_ her mother had told her once, _and men provide._

A child at the time—just twelve years old—she had taken it for gospel.

How _wrong_ her mother was.

Arthur holds her against himself with a force that gives him away. Gang membership, it seems, doesn’t do nearly enough to temper his loneliness. His need is great enough to rival her own and that throws her off completely.

It sounds like he’s chastising himself when he says, “Shouldn’t be doin’ this again,” but it loses its effect with her lip between his teeth.

He's right, for once. They really shouldn’t, not that either of them stop. Maggie decided an hour ago, when he’d all but thrown her onto his horse and ridden her away from camp, to shut down the analytical part of herself then and there. It doesn’t ever do any good with Arthur. He’s always beyond her grasp, beyond understanding, so she tells herself to just stop thinking, _just stop thinking._

Stumbling, drunk on Magdelyn and nothing else, he collapses onto the creaky hotel bed and pulls her down with him.

Maybe it’s just how long it’s been. Maybe, if there had been many others, they wouldn’t always consume each other this way. But she’s _thinking again_ and none of that matters, anyway, as he rolls onto her, kisses her and it’s so sloppy that she’s almost embarrassed by how much she likes it.

If this is not needy, she doesn’t know what is.

He has to have wanted this. Has to have thought about it as much as she has since the last time. She couldn’t have invented the starving way he looked at her all damn day and this only serves to confirm her theory. 

A moan is forced from her lips with the rest of her breath when he presses her hard into the mattress. Arthur growls at the sound and lifts her legs around his waist.

From there, their movements are a blur, hastily stripping each other down. She tries to focus on undoing his buttons but her hands are shaking something terrible. He’s not much better off. They give up after a few minutes and settle for the bare minimum. His shirt, her pants littering the floor, and not much else. She idly hopes he’s had the foresight to lock the door but lucidity is lost on her when he lifts her legs back around his waist and buries all of himself inside of her.

He starts slow and wary. She eagerly meets him every time with shameless need until he’s just as enthusiastic. One hand holding tight against the back of her neck, his urgency builds with hers and he fucks her hard and fast.

She’s surprised that he can tell when she’s close—and even more surprised when he drops a hand to touch her in more or less the right place and helps her along. 

She gasps and speaks through gritted teeth and her words sound less like praise and more like a reprimand. “God _Almighty_.”

Between the shallow breaths he takes, he groans, “ _that’s my girl_ .” It makes her whimper. She isn’t used to it, maybe never _will be_ used to belonging to anyone. His hips lose their tempo but not their force. He keeps bucking into her, moaning loudly when she presses her tongue into the corner of his lips.

“Jesus, Mags, I—” he grunts, doing his level best not to come right there. “Ah—can’t hold on.”

“Want you so badly,” she sighs into his ear, knowing full well what she’s doing.

Instead of letting go, he’s still trying. Why is he trying so hard? He relents slightly, even as his arms shake around her, but his breaths come faster. “Dammit all,” he nips at the shell of her ear, and not softly. “Mmm, I’m—are you—”

She throws her head back, shutting her eyes. The first time they did this, she had been too frustrated to properly appreciate it. A mistake she won’t make again. This time, she’s fully focused as she nears the edge and then topples over it, and not a moment before Arthur pulls out of her and spills onto her.

The embarrassment sets in, taking over as the pleasure fades. Once is a sin; twice is damning. She’s not sure how salvation works, but if she any left, it’s surely gone now.

She throws her arm over her eyes. Takes a moment to breathe and hears Arthur doing the same.

When she finally removes her hand, he’s staring.

The way he looks at her when her hair is down makes her think he likes it that way best. But she’s not sure, never sure what he’s really thinking, so she asks, “What?”

He clears his throat and turns his eyes to the ceiling. The hand on his chest moves up and down as he takes rapid breaths. “Nothin’.”

She swears it isn’t nothing.

When they return to camp, Hosea asks how the job went and Arthur says, “Went good.” 

Maggie nods and takes a sip of the coffee Arthur hands her. It’s strong; Abigail probably made it. 

Hosea asks her about the take and she freezes. She has no idea what to say and then, thankfully, Arthur pulls out fifty dollars of his own money. It satisfies Hosea and he nods and starts talking about the ominous weather while Maggie stares, gaping at Arthur, the smooth bastard.

There never was a job in the first place.


	2. On Transparency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is harassed by the gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I feel like it and because I am absolute fucking Arthur Morgan trash, I already finished another chapter, so. Here. Have it.
> 
> xoxo

_Should a couple fail to remain chaste and prematurely consummate, it should not be obvious to those near to them. Such behavior must be suppressed so as not to be repeated and should not become a source of pride, lest gossip and rumors spread and tarnish an already imperfect reputation._

* * *

“Definitely.”

“They have to be.”

“You’re all seein’ things.”

“I ain’t. Look at ‘em. Always knows where she is in camp, he does. The man’s fuckin’ whipped.”

Javier and Bill turn to where Sean points, toward the far side of camp where Dutch and Arthur are speaking in hushed voices. Maggie walks past them to grab something from Pearson’s wagon—and sure as dawn, Arthur’s eyes flick toward her, down and up, and then back to Dutch.

“Did you see that?!” Sean gestures animatedly with the hand holding his beer. Some sloshes from the bottle in his wild attempt to prove he’s right. “I’m tellin’ you, they’re fuckin’. Sean McGuire knows it when he sees it.”

“That could mean anything,” Bill argues.

“If you’re so sure, then _you_ go walk by Morgan. See if he looks at you.”

Less drunk, Bill would dismiss Sean and this stupid argument altogether, but he has had a few already and drowned all his good sense in whiskey. “Fine—bet first.”

Sean grins and slams a dollar on the table. Javier and Bill both bet five. Charles, who’s been mostly quiet during this whole thing, bets twenty and stabs a hunting knife into the pile, securing it to the table.

They have gambled this way before, just never about anything quite like _this_.

Bill frowns at the money and walks toward the lake, grumbling under his breath. He lights a cigarette, smokes it halfway, and then takes the same path to Pearson’s wagon that Maggie had.

Everyone else in the camp looks to the group of boys when they burst into laughter and applause. Bill marches back to the table, sure he’s lost and angry for it.

“Idiots,” Bill mumbles as they divide up his cash. “That don’t mean a goddamn thing!”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Javier goads.

“I will.”

Sean snorts. “That don’t count for nothin’. Course he’ll deny it. Ask the girls, they’d know.”

It’s late; most of the girls have already gone off to bed. All but Mary-Beth, who’s reading by lantern light. The poor girl doesn’t know what she’s in for when Bill calls her over.

“What do you _need_?” she hisses.

“You talk to Maggie,” Sean starts.

Mary-Beth crosses her arms, very clearly annoyed with the lot of them. “Sometimes. Why?”

“Does she talk about Arthur?”

“Not really.”

That’s all the confirmation Bill needs. “I _told_ you!” he shouts, slamming his fist on the table.

“But she does look at him an awful lot,” Mary-Beth adds quietly, smiling excitedly as she starts divulging. “At dinner last night, she laughed at every little thing he said. Not that I don’t think Arthur’s funny but—well, he ain’t that funny.”

Javier raises his bottle to Sean and they clink them together, blinding grins plastered on their faces. With Mary-Beth, they’re four against one.

“Laughin’,” Bill sneers, “don’t mean they’re—”

Sean scoffs, doesn’t even give Bill the satisfaction of finishing his sentence. “If they aren’t, then why can’t I say a goddamn word to ‘er without Morgan threatenin’ to slit my throat? Explain that.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want you scarin’ her away,” Charles muses, straight-faced as ever.

Mary-Beth laughs at the jibe and Javier cracks a smile.

Sean frowns, but he’s too confident at the moment to be bothered. “Hilarious. Ey, whose side are you on?”

“Hey, Arthur!” Javier drunkenly greets the man himself as he passes their table, leaning back too far and nearly falling off of the barrel he’s sitting on. Mary-Beth catches him and helps him upright.

There are empty bottles everywhere by this point. One of many signs the boys are all surely hammered.

“Gentlemen.” Arthur picks up a bottle and looks at the rest warily.

“Hey—Arthur. Bill was wondering if you were sweet on anyone.”

Arthur props one leg up on a crate and leans onto his knee. It’s dark and he still has his hat on, but through the shadows, a mischievous smile is still visible. “That so? Nah, Bill ain’t my type.”

Sean and Javier laugh and nudge Bill, who looks annoyed.

“ _Maggie_ ,” Bill corrects. “We was talkin’ about Maggie.”

Arthur’s smile vanishes at once. “What about Maggie?”

“Do you like her?” Mary-Beth asks, a hopeful note in her question.

He hangs his head, sighing. “She’s a—a real fine woman. But we ain’t that way.”

“Bull _shit_. You’re tellin’ me you never even kissed her?” Sean challenges.

“No.”

Mary-Beth leans forward. “But you want to.”

“I—I don’t—” Arthur’s cheeks burn and he rubs the back of his neck. “No.”

“Then I can kiss her,” Sean baits him, smiling because he wins either way.

“ _No_ ,” Arthur growls, much too quickly for someone who shouldn’t care. The boys give each other knowing looks and Arthur backtracks. “Now, wait a minute, that ain’t—”

“Arthur Morgan!” Sean laughs, patting Arthur on the back. Arthur shrugs his hand off. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Well, you still ain’t.”

“Felicidades, Arthur,” Javier lifts up his beer.

“Hold on—”

“A toast!” Sean climbs onto the table and everyone still awake looks over to him. “To Arthur and Maggie—may you both live happily ever after!”

The boys burst into teasing and laughter and start singing some love song that is too slurred and off-key to be identified. Dutch raises an eyebrow at Arthur and then looks over at Maggie, red-faced beside Abigail.

“Quiet, you morons!” she shouts, hand on Maggie’s shoulder.

The boys just sing louder.

Arthur, fed up with their attempt at entrapment, pushes away from the table. “You don’t even know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, goddamn fools,” he grumbles as he walks to his tent.

But that doesn’t discourage them. Can’t, because now, they all know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Arthur Morgan has gone and given his heart away again.


	3. On Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arthur is confronted with a difficult truth.

> **“** A sensible woman, to preserve the peace and secure the affections of her husband, will often sacrifice her own inclinations to his. **”**
> 
> Elizabeth Lanfear, _Letters to Young Ladies on Their Entrance Into the World_ (1824)

_A woman must not insist too strongly on her own convictions. Many a man has been driven away by a contrary wife. Rather, the woman should listen and smile, and if she disagrees, think such things only to herself to avoid divisive arguments._

* * *

  
He steps only halfway into the washroom and then stops. His mouth hangs partly open like he does when she ambushes him but now isn’t one of those times.

At least, she didn’t intend it that way.

Maggie’s brows draw together. “What is it?”

He closes the door behind him and steps toward the tub, not looking away from her. “Nah, can’t be right,” he murmurs.

She’s really confused now. She raises an eyebrow. “What ain’t right?”

“Didn’t order no deluxe bath,” he shakes his head. He kneels beside where she lays submerged in the tub.

Magdelyn smiles and rolls her eyes. “Christ. Be quiet.”

“Must be in the wrong room,” he mumbles, still yet to stop his roaming gaze. He rests his forearm on the side of the tub and his fingers fall limply beneath the surface of the water. “Stealin’ what some other lucky bastard spent his hard-earned money on.”

She can’t help but laugh, loud and ridiculous. It feels good, she thinks. If she ever did it before him, she can’t remember. “Get in the damn tub, Morgan.”

“Afraid I can’t, miss.” The knuckle of his index finger rests just beneath her chin and his thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. All of her is flaming and the water begins to feel too warm against her skin. “I ain’t sure how much you cost but I know I ain’t got enough.”

“You’re a fool, Arthur, get in.”

But he doesn’t.

Resting against the back of the tub, she lets her eyes flutter closed as his fingers wander. Innocent, not looking for anything but her. Over her cheek, down her neck, across her collarbone and no lower. Content to quicken her breaths and run his skin over hers; they don’t always have this luxury.

She groans and he reciprocates the pleased sound. When she opens her eyes, she’s bleary and dazed, but not so much that she can’t see the shred of fear in his that always poisons these moments. God, what she wouldn’t give for the ability to convince him that she won’t leave. That nothing in this entire fucking world is strong enough to pry her from him, that even death couldn’t steal her away.

His thumb finds its way back to her lips and she opens them enough to press the tip of her tongue to it, reveling in the way his eyes latch onto her mouth and glaze over.

“Testin’ me,” he groans, finally standing and unbuttoning his shirt.

He undresses quickly and she enjoys her view. If she had any artistic inclinations whatsoever, she would immortalize the moment. Maybe if she could show him the way he looked to her, he’d know why she scoffs when he speaks as if he’s anything less than enough.

As it is, she’s terrible at art. Arthur is the one who can draw. But when he steps into the tub— _“finally, Arthur, you goddamn tease”—_ she curls up against his chest and she feels once again that she is whole, so complete she could burst. It makes her want to sing, and that she can do.

She hums and caresses his chest, up and down the expanse of muscle and skin. He’s easy to lose herself in. She’s never had anything so valuable but it doesn’t scare her. Not like it should, not now. Away from Shady Belle, it’s so easy to pretend that everything is fine. They have all the time in the world to be this way.

Thinking of the mess that they’ll return to in the morning stops her humming. She doesn’t notice, but Arthur does.

His fingers trail down her spine and his head lolls against hers, mouth against her forehead. “You okay, Mags?”

“Mhmm.” It’s barely audible. She has to hold her tongue because she can’t say what she wants to. She doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Maggie.”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

She sighs. “It don’t matter.”

He pauses. “...You worryin’ ‘bout the gang?”

It isn’t as if she means not to answer, she just isn’t sure the gentlest way to put it. But her lack of response says more than anything.

His fingers tilt her face upward until she’s forced to look at his. “Maggie,” he says, and now she notices all the lines on his face. They detail years of toil like trails on a map, leading nowhere good—and _now_ she’s scared, because she doesn’t know what will become of him. “I will take care of you, darlin’. No matter what happens.”

He looks so damn earnest. She has no doubt it’s a promise he’ll keep. No, she was never concerned that Arthur wouldn’t protect her from the coming reckoning.

She swallows, braces herself. “I don’t like Micah.”

“Micah?” He doesn’t see where she’s going with this. “Did he…” he stops so he can fume, “he touch you? I’ll kill that sorry son of a bitch–”

“And Dutch don’t treat you right.”

Arthur drops his hand and his arms go limp. He’s still looking at her, at least, but she can see how reluctant he is to acknowledge what she’s said.

“I know… he’s like your pa, but…” Every second brings her closer and closer to tears because he isn’t listening. There’s no acceptance in his eyes.

“Dutch’s under a whole lotta pressure.”

She shrugs, twisting in his arms to face the wall. “Yeah… but… maybe this gang ain’t that way anymore. Ain’t really a family. Few of ‘em, maybe. Charles, John—”

Arthur scoffs. “Marston? He don’t know how to be nobody’s family.”

“No, but you love him,” she pushes his shoulder, “you sour bastard. Don’t pretend not to.”

He pulls her up closer to him and presses his smile to her temple and she can hardly bear to break the moment. She wants to abandon the conversation altogether just to remain entombed in bliss. But the illusion he holds with a white-knuckle grip has to die, lest it kill him first.

He starts pressing sloppy kisses to her neck. It’s damn hard to focus but she has to. “Arthur.”

“Beautiful,” he mouths against her skin.

“Hey.” She pulls back and holds his eyes, adamant that he heed her words. “I don’t know… well, there’s a lot I don’t know. But Arthur, you have got to trust me. Dutch is manipulatin’ you.”

That word is strong. She knows. Thought twice about using it, but then, Arthur won’t listen unless she’s painfully clear. Even now, she can see that he’s preparing counter points, ready to deny it.

Maggie sits up and straddles him so she can hold his face. Every ounce of tenderness and understanding she has is on display, eyes wide and fearful as she looks down on him. Arthur looks sallow. He’s running himself ragged, and for what?

“I know he’s done a lot of good things. I know he raised you. But I know you know something’s different. Tell me that you know, too.”

He nods but stops looking at her. “I know,” he admits uncomfortably.

That has to be enough. She has to be okay with him knowing and she has to trust that, when the time is right, he’ll leave. Cut himself away from all he’s ever known and run.

But she’s still scared because Arthur is no good at saving himself.

The proof is in his weathered skin, hands that he’s worked raw for the sake of others.

She folds herself into him, arms around his neck that tighten suddenly at the thought of everything that could happen. There is too much she doesn’t know for her to be very comfortable. Arthur seems not to have the same problem, or he is much better at hiding it.

“We’ll be alright, sweetheart. Don’t you worry,” he assures her, rubbing circles into her lower back.

But she can’t help asking: “Promise?”

“Promise.”

And only because it is Arthur, because he would never lie to her, she believes him.


	4. On Redeeming the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {You Make Loving Fun - Fleetwood Mac}
> 
> xoxo

> **“** A very grave responsibility has the man assumed in his marriage. Doting parents have confided to his care the welfare of a loved daughter, and a trusting woman has risked all her future happiness in his keeping. Largely will it depend upon him whether her pathway shall be strewn with thorns or roses. **”**
> 
> Thomas E. Hill, _Hill’s Manual of Social and Business Forms_ (1889)

_It is the duty of a man to secure the affections of a woman; to woo her, and continually pursue her throughout courtship. This is especially vital to the outlaw, whose way of life works against him in convincing a lover he is a viable partner in the long term._

* * *

They’re supposed to be looking out for Bronte. Supposed to be listening for tips and people watching until they find out where he is, but all of Saint Denis is tight-lipped about the man in charge.

That can only mean he has secrets and the money to keep them.

Arthur has been drinking all night, waiting for tongues to slip, while she’s been keeping away from him, pretending not to know who he is at all. Karen fixed her up like a genuine city working girl, all rougue and tight corsets.

But for all her flattery and fawning, no one has told her a single damn thing about Bronte.

It’s a lost cause. Arthur realizes it about the same time as she does and trips over his own feet walking over to her. He really is shit-faced now. 

“‘Scuse me,” he mumbles, bumping into strangers before he finally stops beside where she’s leaning against the wall. “Anything?”

“No.”

Eyes transfixed on her face, he tries to prop his elbow against the wall above her and leans forward. His drunken momentum has him almost falling onto her and she grabs fistfuls of his shirt to hold him steady. Maggie laughs to herself, smells the liquor on his breath and it’s _strong_.

She hasn’t ever seen him this wasted.

“Might could—try the other saloon,” he muses through the fog. Though, the way he is staring so intently at her makes her think that’s not what’s on his mind.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere else tonight,” she grunts, holding his body upright as he sways.

He chuckles and the sound is so sweet that it pulls a smile out of her. Arthur does that easily, always effortlessly.

“Probably right,” he concedes.

He goes on staring as he puts a hand on either side of her head. She swallows like she’s cornered, even though she’s mostly sure that Arthur has given up any notions of collecting her bounty. But he’s as private as they come, careful about kissing her, about when and where and who sees them.

Public affection isn’t something she’s received before and she doesn’t know how to act when she does.

He doesn’t touch her and she doesn’t move. She waits for him to say what he’s thinking or hint at his intentions but he is quiet, expression grave and blue eyes frozen over. It looks like fear and she wonders what could scare a man who has all but conquered it.

“You so beautiful,” he mumbles, looking her over.

Miles used to tell her that. But not really—no, he had called her _pretty_ and that doesn’t feel quite the same. Always before she’d let him have pieces of her, and then he’d wait long stretches. He’d ask for more and she would say no and he’d tell her how _pretty_ she looked.

She hates him now for tainting those words, but somehow, Arthur just feels _different_ , feels sincere because he looks at her like some lovely piece of art, some striking beauty. What is she supposed to do with that?

“I think we should leave,” she whispers, though she doesn’t turn away from the adoration in his eyes until it’s grown an unbearable warmth in her chest. She tugs at his hand. “C’mon, Arthur, really—”

“Hang on a minute. Just let me look at you.”

He makes no moves to do anything and she realizes that he means it; he only wants to take her in. Won’t ask for anything.

She is so unfamiliar with being a means to an end, someone else’s gratification, that she freezes up. Even her breath stays trapped in her chest for fear that if she moves, the illusion will shatter. She’ll be found out and left like all the other times.

But Arthur just stares at her—her blue eyes, a shade darker than his, pink cheeks and scars, pursed lips and laugh lines. He hums to himself and she wants to ask why, if he still finds her beautiful after closer inspection, until he strokes down the side of her neck and all thoughts slip through her fingers like water.

“Um,” she shivers, looking around and seeing they have turned a few heads. “Arthur. Honey, folks are—we’re in _public.”_

She thinks that will stop him; he’s as private as they come. Won’t even kiss her around the gang, waits until they’re behind closed doors to touch her. But now, senses dulled, he’s slow to pull away, and ripping his hand from her skin pulls at a seam that’s inexplicably sewn them to each other.

He puts much needed space between them and they both breathe a little deeper. “Probably right.”

The spell broken, he excuses himself to his horse and tells her to meet him across the street in fifteen minutes. Maggie gathers her wits again in that time, but it’s difficult, scattered as they are.

_So beautiful._

She makes him say it again that night, and she memorizes the shape his lips make when he says it.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m also very open to suggestion! Comment or send me anonymous asks on my tumblr, electriicfleur. I’d love to show the parts of Arthur and Maggie’s story that you’re interested in (:
> 
> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> xoxo


End file.
